The Christmas Kite (18 page)

Unmoving, Meara stood above him, her gaze not on his legs but on his arms around Mac. Her gentle eyes spoke silent words that soaked through Jordan’s body and warmed his fear to confidence and trust.

“Are you okay, Mac?” Jordan rose, his hand still resting on the child’s shoulder.

“Me?” Mac asked, poking his chest. “I’m okay, Jordan.”

“And I’m fine, too, son.” At his words, his eyes searched Meara’s. She nodded a simple agreement, and the years of hiding his taut, puckered skin ebbed away like the waves against the shore. “But we need to talk,” he said to Meara alone.

Her eyes riveted to his, and she nodded.

Caught in her gaze, the years spun through Jordan’s mind: his reclusive life, the loneliness, the scars that daily roused his guilt, the never-ending sorrow. Today his confession could give him freedom.

Dooley’s bark brought them to attention. Pulling their gaze toward the sound, Meara’s scream alerted Jordan before he saw the awful sight. With his interest in the birds, Dooley had again surged into the rolling waves, and Mac had followed.

“Mac!” Meara cried, frozen with fear.

Jordan sighted the massive crest rising in the distance. A receding wave knocked Mac off his feet and dragged him down into the churning foam. His head disappeared a second time, and before Meara’s cry faded into the wind, Jordan bolted across the sand and dove into the angry water. He pulled against the current, snatching the child before he plunged again into the murky depths.

With Mac crushed against his side, Jordan paddled with one arm, using every ounce of strength and adrenaline, until his feet kicked against the sand. He bolstered himself against the current, lifted Mac in his arms, and pulled his legs through the seething water to shore.

Meeting Jordan in the shallows, Meara threw herself against Mac, tears washing her death-gray cheeks. Her eyes searched her son’s face until the boy’s cough rallied her spirit. “Mac,” she cried. “Mac.”

The child opened his dazed eyes and a deep, rasping cough tore through him again. Jordan lowered him to the ground and kneeled at his side. “Are you okay, son?”

Looking stunned, Mac peered at his mother, then at Jordan, as if sorting out the details. “The ducks,” he said, pointing to the empty water. They had flown off in the confusion, and Mac stared toward the birdless landscape. “Gone.” He shrugged his shoulders, releasing another heart-rending cough.

A deep breath spilled in a slow stream from Jordan’s lungs. “They’re gone, Mac. And you could have been, too. Don’t ever go near the water alone. Never, ever. Do you hear me?”

“With Dooley,” he responded, his matter-of-fact tone laughable, except for the fear that still clouded Jordan’s thoughts.

“Dooley isn’t an adult, Mac. You only go near the water with an adult,” Jordan said.

Mac looked at his mother. Agreeing, she closed her eyes and nodded.

“An…adult,” Mac repeated. “Okay, Jor-dan.”

Jordan wrapped his arms around the boy and pressed his cheek against his. Once again his distraction had caused a near tragedy. When would he learn? His fear resurfaced. “We’d better get him to the house and dried off.”

Jordan trudged up the path, leaving a dripping trail of wet footprints. Meara hurried behind him, her breath coming in gasps. Giving a good, healthy shake of his soggy fur, Dooley followed.

Inside the house, Jordan waited as Meara pummeled Mac’s back to help him hack up the water, then she slipped off his garments and wrapped him in a flannel blanket. Jordan gathered the child’s sodden clothes, and, after he changed to dry apparel, tossed Mac’s wet clothing in the dryer and hung his dripping sleepwear over the laundry tubs.

When Jordan returned to the living room, Mac was cuddled on the sofa with Meara. Motioning he’d be a minute, Jordan entered the kitchen and turned on the burner under the teakettle.

He prepared a pot of tea and, before heading back to the living room, grabbed a bag of chewy chocolate cookies. Not homemade, but the next-best thing. When he joined Meara, the facts were clear. Their science lesson had lost importance in the confusion, and Mac’s deep, steady breathing signaled his exhausted sleep.

“We’ve lost our student,” Jordan said, sliding the tray onto a nearby table. He handed Meara the teacup and grasped his own.

“Better he sleep, I think,” Meara said, gazing at the slumbering child. She shifted her gaze to Jordan. “I can’t thank you enough for your quick thinking. I couldn’t move I was so frightened.”

“If you’d been alone, you would have. Never fear. A parent will do anything to save his child.” His gaze drifted down to his jeans, now hiding the proof of his statement. He’d failed to save his child. But he’d used every searing breath trying.

“You’ve hidden the terror far too long, Jordan,” said Meara. “I want to know the truth.”

“And I need to tell you,” Jordan whispered. “But I’ve been afraid of what you’d think of a man who caused his family’s death.”

J
ordan’s hand trembled as he clutched the cup in his hand.

Meara’s eyes widened and fearful confusion filled her eyes.

He drew in a ragged breath, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. It was now or never. He could offer Meara nothing unless she knew the whole miserable truth of the accident.

“Are you all right?” Meara whispered.

“Yes.” He paused, rubbing his temples. “No, I’m miserable.” He searched her eyes. “I’ve wanted to tell you the truth—the whole story—but I always lost courage…The truth is painful.”

Apprehension flashed across her face, then shifted to accepting calm. “Don’t try to startle me, Jordan, please. I want to know what happened. And in my heart, I think you need to tell me. For your own healing.”

He nodded and stared at his sock-clad feet, again avoiding her eyes. “Robbie was eight then. About the same age Mac was when we met. I loved my son more than I can say, but…he’d gotten, like most children at that age, a little smart-alecky and sassy-mouthed.” He shifted his eyes upward. “Mac will never be like that, I don’t think.”

Silently, Meara nodded.

“I’d promised myself the next time he mouthed off, I would show him who was boss. I’d tolerated it all evening. On the way home from eating out, he started up again. He didn’t like the restaurant, he didn’t like the food, he didn’t like much of anything. We hadn’t let him order a chocolate sundae for dessert. Typical kid stuff, but grating on a parent’s nerves.”

“Mac gets me down, too, sometimes,” Meara murmured.

“Lila tried to shush him, but for some reason, he was determined to keep it up. I cautioned him. ‘One more word,’ I said, ‘and I’ll show you who’s in charge.’”

Meara’s heart ached, watching his pained expression. If she could only calm him, hold him in her arms. She clamped her jaw, controlling the urge.

Jordan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes begging for understanding. “I never hit my son, Meara. I don’t believe in physical punishment. But that night I wanted to give him a smack.”

Meara held her breath, waiting.

Pausing, Jordan raised his hand and kneaded the muscles along his hairline, then he sank back again into the cushion. “I could never strike him…but what I did was worse. I was approaching a curve in the road, and I concentrated on the solid yellow line. But Robbie flung out one last comment, and I took my eyes off the road for a second and swung around, facing the back seat, and glared. When I saw Robbie’s startled eyes, I realized I’d lost control of myself and I refocused on the highway.”

His voice caught in his throat and he closed his eyes. “Too late,” he continued. “It was too late. A fuel tanker had crossed the yellow line. If I’d been watching, I could have veered away, but I’d been looking at Robbie for that fleeting moment.

“The truck tried to brake, but the tank swung sideways and we careened into it. Apparently I was knocked unconscious. When I opened my eyes, the passenger door was crushed and Lila was bleeding. Terribly.

“They were both unconscious, and flames were rising around the passenger door. Lila’s seat belt was jammed. My hands were trembling violently. I leaped from the driver’s seat, but before I could get to the back door, the tanker exploded. Fire and flames shot into the sky and along the cement. I’ll never forget that horrible sight.”

Meara covered her mouth, holding back the sobs that raged inside her.

Jordan’s voice quaked with grief. Between sobs he described the horrifying event. “I stepped into the flames and pulled on the door handle. Locked! I’d forgotten to release the door locks.”

He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, God, I am so sorry. So horribly, terribly sorry. Why did I lose my temper? Why?” He raised his head, his eyes pleading. “He’d be alive today if I—”

Meara rose from the sofa and fell at his feet, wrapping his grieving body in her arms. She said nothing. No words could ease the pain of reliving the horrifying moments.

“People appeared from everywhere,” he said. “Someone grabbed my arms and dragged me from the flames. I don’t remember much after that.”

His body trembled in her arms. She cradled him against her, rocking, caressing, comforting.

In time, he calmed and lifted his tear-red eyes. “I’m sorry, Meara. Sorry I had to tell you…and sorry it happened.”

“Don’t apologize, Jordan. You’ve kept this inside too many years. I understand why you haven’t been able to tell me. The pain must be unbearable, even though it was an accident. You didn’t go over the line, Jordan. It was the truck.” She paused, drawing in a breath of courage. “Let God in, Jordan. God promises comfort and healing. But you have to accept Him.”

“You know how I turned against God. I’m surprised He’s even listened to my feeble prayers these past few months. I’d begun to think, to see sense in the Bible’s message, but after the accident, I blocked it all from my mind and heart. I called Him ‘Lila’s God’—even in my head.”

“But God’s promised, even when we’re stubborn, to give us strength and courage. And love.”

Jordan’s sorrowful eyes knotted Meara’s heart.

“But why?” he asked. “Did I deserve such horrible punishment for losing my temper?”

Meara brushed her fingers along his creased brow and kissed his wet eyes. “God said, ‘My power is made perfect in weakness.’ When we realize we can’t survive without God’s strength and comfort, then God is perfected in us, Jordan. When we finally give up our struggles and let Jesus carry our sorrows and burdens, then we are made strong through God’s power. Do you understand?”

Jordan drank in a calming breath, releasing it slowly. “I try. I really try.”

“Lila and Robbie were Christians.” She searched Jordan’s eyes for understanding.

“Yes, Christians. Both of them.”

“And you, Jordan? Would you have come to know God fully? Completely?”

“I don’t know. I tried. Sometimes I think I’m too intelligent to believe something so simple, yet terribly complex. Faith, Meara. It takes faith. I trusted in me. I was intelligent, capable, learned. A college professor. I thought I didn’t need God.”

“But we all do. And when the tragedy happened—and you’ll never know why for sure—remember, ‘we see through a glass darkly.’ Only God knows the whole reason behind everything. You lost your ability to trust. You felt helpless. But God is there to lift you up if you would only ask.”

He took her hands and pulled her onto his lap. “I’ve been afraid to drive with anyone in the car ever since that night. Did you realize we’ve never been in a car together?”

Meara’s mind flew back to the Fourth of July picnic. “You carried Mac home once, when your car was nearby. I wondered why. I decided you didn’t want to wake him, wrestling him into the back seat.”

“I worried that you’d notice, and I’ve lived in fear that you’d ask me. I couldn’t explain without telling you the whole story, and—” he hesitated “—I wasn’t ready.”

Mac shifted on the sofa and released a series of hacking, ragged coughs.

Meara slid from Jordan’s arms and crossed to Mac’s side. She eased him more securely onto the cushion, caressed his hair and waited. Nothing more. Returning to Jordan, she sat on the edge of his chair. “I’ll need to keep an eye on him for a few days.”

Then the weekend rose in her thoughts and her hand flew to her mouth. “What do I do now? Mother Hayden’s expecting him tomorrow.”

Jordan pressed his hand against hers, resting in her lap. “Wait and see how he is in the morning. If he seems okay, take him for the visit and explain the problem. I’m sure she’ll call you if he gets worse.”

“Nettie’s right,” she said, fueled with aggravation. “Another example of the overprotective mother. Will I ever stop worrying?”

“Only if you listen to your own advice. Trust in the Lord. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“It is. But it’s easier said than done.”

Amusement filled Jordan’s eyes for the first time that morning. Meara captured his hand in hers and raised it to her lips. “We both need to work at it, I guess.”

He clasped his fingers around her hand and drew her back to his lap. She snuggled against his chest and closed her eyes, feeling loved and fully blessed.

With red-rimmed eyes, Meara awakened to Mac’s persistent cough. She’d heard it earlier when she brought him home from his grandmother’s, but it had worsened. She peered at the clock—1:00 a.m. Her heart thudded as fear ricocheted through her. A respiratory infection for Mac was serious business. She crept to the telephone and punched in the familiar numbers.

Jordan answered, sleepy and confused.

“Jordan,” Meara said into the telephone. “I’m sorry to wake you but I’m frightened. Mac’s cough is much worse than when I picked him up this afternoon. He’s struggling to breathe and—”

“Take him to Emergency, Meara. Cheboygan General is the closest. I’ll—I’ll come and…I’ll—”

“No, please, I understand.” She paused, remembering his fear. Her hand trembled against the receiver. “I’ll take him myself. The hospital is before the shopping mall, I think.” She struggled to locate the hospital in her memory. “Yes, I remember where it is.”

“No, Meara, I’ll pick you up. It’s time I deal with my fear.”

“But you’ll have to come to town and backtrack. I’ll drive to your place, then.”

“We’re wasting time, Meara. Mac might need you on the way, and if you’re driving, you can’t help him.”

Fear gripped her, and she acquiesced. “We’ll be waiting.”

Jordan slammed the receiver, threw on his clothes and grabbed his jacket. The car keys jingled in his pocket as he jammed his arms into the sleeves and bolted for the door. In the late-night silence, the humming of his tires on the highway and his thudding heart was all he heard.

Meara was waiting at the top of the staircase when he arrived. He rushed up the steps to meet her, then descended with Mac in his arms. At the car, he rested the child’s head on Meara’s lap in the back seat.

The dark, empty highway rose before him. His sweaty hands clung to the steering wheel as he rounded each curve, fear jabbing his senses. He longed to glance in the back or catch a glimpse of Meara in the rearview mirror, but was thwarted by his panic. If his focus left the road, God might retaliate again.

He grimaced. Why blame God? He and the truck driver were at fault, not God. They had both erred. A careless, horrible accident. The Lord gave humans the ability to make choices. Jordan had made his. His son’s good behavior had been his priority. A well-behaved, perfect child. But the outcome was that he now had no child at all.

Mac’s chest-splitting coughs repeated in Jordan’s ears. The distressing sound was followed by the child’s futile attempts to draw a full, lifesaving breath. Desperation filled Jordan. They had no time to spare. He pushed his foot down on the accelerator.

The car careened past the black, wooded landscape. In the distance, Jordan spied a pale glow spreading across the highway. Streetlights. The city. He forced himself to ease off the accelerator. The car slowed and stopped at the first traffic light. Jordan turned right and followed the empty storefront buildings, security lights glowing like dim votive candles.

Mac’s breathing worsened. The child’s shallow gasps tightened Jordan’s chest. Reaching the hospital, he guided the car to the Emergency entrance. A guard rolled a wheelchair to the passenger door, secured Mac in the seat, and Meara and Mac disappeared through the doorway.

His pulse racing, Jordan followed the man’s instructions to the parking area. When he turned off the ignition, Jordan pressed his forehead against his aching arms, propped against the steering wheel. A prayer of thanksgiving stumbled through his thoughts. They’d arrived safely. And Mac was in good hands.

When he entered the waiting room, Meara and Mac were gone. The reception desk was empty, and Jordan slumped into a chair, filled with devastating memories. Years earlier Jordan had been wheeled into Emergency on a stretcher. Though his half-conscious mind had screamed for Lila and Robbie, he knew they were gone. Burned in the horrific inferno.

With the acrid smell of burning metal and fuel lingering in his senses, he tugged his thoughts back to the present. A nurse returned to the desk, and Jordan rose on shaking legs.

“I’m looking for Meara Hayden. She just brought in her son,” he said.

Professional eyes met his. “They’re with the doctor. You are…?” She hesitated.

“A friend. I drove them here.”

Stoically, she motioned to the row of chairs. “Have a seat. When I have more information, I’ll call you.”

Like a chastened child, he stepped backward and settled into a stiff, comfortless chair. Jordan crushed the painful, distant memories. Instead, he relived the day he met Mac on the beach and the child’s attraction to his kite. Cheerful moments, days on the beach and hours in the apartment.

Meara’s soft lilting voice filled his mind. Aching, he longed to be at her side to comfort her and ease her fear. Prayer, he thought. He lowered his head, his mind searching for the proper words to plead for Mac’s safety.
Like the prodigal son, Lord…more like a bullheaded doubter, I’m here, Father. You’ve opened Your arms and given me another chance. The chance to be a father and to do it right this time. Lord, protect Mac. Heal him. I can’t bear to…